


Flaming

by GrimmonsOwnsMyAss



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, But the asshole deserves it, Everybody is supernatural, Grif cares, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Maximum effort but only for Simmons, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Simmons is a badass, Well almost everyone, Werewolf!Grif, Werewolves, references to abuse/abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimmonsOwnsMyAss/pseuds/GrimmonsOwnsMyAss
Summary: Simmons has never heard Donut so worked up. He almost laughs until he realizes that Donut is frustrated with him and Grif and their supposed ‘UST’.“What if he rejects me?”Donut’s expression softens at Simmons’s insecurity, and he smiles reassuringly at the redhead. “I don’t think Grif is capable of telling you ‘no’. You could tell him to go on a hunger strike, and he’d do it.”Simmons snorts. “I think that’s pushing it.”
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 22
Kudos: 98





	1. Home Sweet Home

The air smelled of pine trees, Simmons noticed, rising from his nest of furs and stretching. Being here for a few months now, you’d think he’d be used to all the different smells of the woods. 

Light from outside filters in through his window, and his golden prosthetic arm sends it scattering. The actual construction was courtesy of Sarge and Lopez once he arrived, and the enchantment that allowed him to use it as a real hand was courtesy of Doc, the only mage living on the island. A matching leg prosthetic was made in the same manner, but they couldn't do much about his missing left eye.

Climbing down from the treehouse that Sarge -- and a very reluctant Grif -- helped him build, he headed toward a familiar cluster of small log cabins. They're nestled in a meadow at the foot of the largest mountain and bordered by the treeline of the forest. Sarge lovingly refers to the cluster of cabins as his “base”. 

Simmons’ treehouse lies just behind the treeline, hidden unless you know where to look. He likes that aspect of it; it makes him feel safe.

“Get up, dirtbag!” He hears the shout from a distance.

Ah, there’s Sarge, and judging by the yelling, Grif is nearby.

He heads to Grif’s cabin, a cozy little thing that's littered with soft animal pelts. When he first arrived, the cabin was pretty bare, but after a few weeks of hanging out, Grif --for whatever reason-- decided to put in the effort to hunt more.

He was met with the sight of Grif still in bed with Sarge standing over him, hands on his hips and radiating authority. How Grif managed to disobey the grey-haired werewolf always baffled Simmons. The older man was incredibly intimidating, and Simmons instinctively obeys him.

"You're not my Alpha. Get out." Grif flashed his fangs at Sarge. The gesture would've been scary if he wasn't currently wrapped in his blankets and furs like a burrito. Simmons thought it was actually kind of cute. 

Sarge's answering growl, a deep rumble, sent shivers down Simmons' spine, and he unintentionally squeaked in fear. Both werewolves finally noticed him.

"See? Simmons is up!" Sarge folded his arms across his chest. "Don't make me get my shotgun." Sarge's famous shotgun was usually accompanied by enough silver bullets to take out an entire army of supernatural folk. 

Simmons tried not to snort at the irony of a werewolf having the equipment necessary to kill one. According to stories from Donut, Sarge was a hunter that got bitten and gave up hunting after he turned. Hunters were his target now. 

Grif's eyes darted to Simmons, who now stood awkwardly in the doorway. He grumbled and rolled out of bed. 

It was then that both Simmons and Sarge realized just how naked Grif was under the blankets.

Simmons, squawking in shock, immediately averted his eyes, and Sarge just cursed at Grif before storming out of the cabin.

Grif just huffed, grabbing a pair of shorts out of the pile of clothes that lived on his chair and putting them on. Simmons, sneaking a glance, tried desperately to not think of the fact that the werewolf wasn't wearing any underwear.

"You're coming on patrol with me," Grif ordered stalking out of the cabin with a huff. 

"Whatever, asshole." Simmons snorted but didn't object, obediently following the large Hawaiian man into the woods for patrol.

"I don't even see why Sarge makes us do this," Grif complains. "It's not like we have to worry about security with Washington, Carolina, and the other ex-hunters watching the island."

The island they lived on, a large tropical one, was home to all kinds of supernatural creatures, creatures that needed to hide from humans and hunters in order to stay alive. The ex-hunters came to the island a few years ago, according to Grif and Donut, but they hadn't come to fight. Apparently, the organization they worked for lied to them about the nature of supernatural creatures, and when they found out that they had been killing innocent people, they destroyed the facilities and took off. They offered their protection after discovering the island and have been here ever since. 

After walking far enough into the woods that Sarge wouldn't be able to spot them, Grif dropped himself onto a patch of smooth earth beneath a large oak tree, resting his back against it. It was his unofficial napping spot. He gave Simmons an expectant look, and that was all that was needed for Simmons to plop down next to him. These 'patrol breaks' were pretty frequent, so Simmons got used to them pretty fast.

He also discovered pretty quickly that the small rag-tag wolf pack that adopted him was very physically affectionate, Grif especially, but it always made him feel like he was taking advantage of Grif when they cuddled. He was pretty sure Grif didn't know about his massive crush on him. If he did, he's never said anything about it or acted on it. Simmons did his best to keep up the status quo.

Grif's bare arm was warm against Simmons as the redhead leaned in, even going so far as to rest his head on the werewolf's shoulder. Grif's long curly hair tickled his forehead, but Simmons didn't move. Sarge always told Grif to cut it, that it was a safety hazard -- that a hunter could grab it in a fight, but Simmons secretly hoped he never would. He wanted to know what it felt like to run his fingers through the locks, especially while finding out how Grif's lips felt against his own. Unfortunately, Grif was pretty protective of his hair. Donut alone has received a black eye on three separate occasions just for trying to braid it, so Simmons decides not to test his luck. 

Simmons' eyes had just started to flutter shut, his breathing evening out in the early stages of sleep when a loud effeminate voice cut through the soft noises of the forest. 

"Hiya boys!"

Grif grumbled his displeasure at the nymph's sudden appearance. "What do you want, Donut?"

Donut giggled, light and airy. "I'm just saying hi to my two best buddies." Grif did not look pleased about this, and it made Simmons snicker.

His brown eyes flickered over to him, and Grif's glare softened slightly.

"Simmons!" The redhead jolted as Donut's attention was suddenly directed at him. "I'm getting so impatient with you, buddy!" Simmons rolled his eyes, wondering what the nymph could possibly want from him. "When are you gonna tell us what you are? It's driving me insane!"

Simmons' blood ran cold at that, and he unconsciously grabbed at Grif's bicep for comfort. Thankfully, there were no other outward signs of distress, but Grif was attuned enough to Simmons that he didn’t need anything else to connect the dots. The werewolf was suddenly very upset.

"Fuck off, Donut." The snarl was punctuated by a loud growl and the flash of teeth and claws.

Donut, not perturbed in the least, rolls his eyes. In fact, he looks a little smug at Grif's reaction.

He points the index and middle fingers of his left hand at his eyes before pointing them at Simmons. "I'm gonna drill you on it, Simmons. I'm gonna drill you so hard." Then, he disappears into a flurry of flower petals blowing in the wind. Donut. Always so dramatic with his entrances and exits.

Grif's growling tapers off, and silence stretches between the two of them for a few moments. A large warm hand settles on Simmons' right knee, and something flutters in his stomach as his bright green eye locks with warm brown ones.

Grif doesn't look pitying. The look he's giving Simmons is one of worry masked with thinly veiled indifference. 

"You good?" he asks. The hand squeezes briefly before loosening.

Simmons nods, forcing a weak smile as his mood steadies. Grif asked him the same question when he first got to the island, and the resulting panic attack had them both shaken afterward. Grif doesn't push the issue, and he's quick to snarl at anyone who does.

"Come on, fatass. We gotta finish patrol." Simmons stands, brushing himself off and offering the werewolf a hand. 

Grif just groans and rolls onto his side. "I don't wanna."

Simmons can't help but scoff at his laziness. He crosses his arms. "What? Big bad wolf can't get it up?" The goading is successful judging by the sudden tensing of Grif's body. 

Simmons immediately darts away, running as quickly as he can through the forest. He doesn't need to look behind him to know that Grif threw off his shorts and shifted before chasing after him. He can hear the sound of paws hitting the earth as he sprints. Challenging a wolf's virility is the quickest way to get them worked up, Simmons has discovered. He does it often. It’s the safest way to get Grif’s attention and keep it.

The air is cool and the sunlight warm as he leaps over roots and fallen branches, ducking below low-hanging foliage. Where Simmons makes an effort to not disturb the woods around him, Grif pays no mind, barreling through branches and bushes with little to no regard. 

He's gaining on him.

Simmons can't help but laugh as he hears Grif's impatient barks behind him. He feels a nip at his right foot, and the resulting tumble and yelp is far from dignified. He realizes, as he tumbles into plush, sun-warmed sand, that they ran all the way to the beach. 

He can see Tucker, a male siren, chatting away with Washington at the dock. The two of them have been dating for a while now, apparently getting together shortly before Simmons arrived.

Rolling onto his back, Simmons grins up at the big, panting wolf above him. 

He would never admit it to his face, he finds Grif's wolf form incredibly beautiful. His fur is dark like his human hair and slightly curled. It's also incredibly soft. Simmons wonders if petting Grif is anything like running his fingers through his hair. 

Grif places a giant paw on Simmons thin chest and let's his tongue loll out of his mouth in the best shit-eating grin a wolf can muster. 

Simmons rolls his eye. "Yeah, yeah, you won. You're a big strong wolf. Happy?"

Grif seems to preen under the praise. And he licks one long stripe up Simmons' neck and cheek before settling his massive body on top of him.

Simmons can't help but laugh, absently running a hand along the back of Grif's head, scratching fondly at the back of his fluffy ears. The werewolf seems to melt at the attention, fully relaxing on top of Simmons.

He may look frail, but Simmons is nowhere close to human, so the heavy weight that is Grif doesn't actually bother him. It doesn't hurt, but he's definitely pinned in place.

He succumbs to his fate, letting his head fall back into the sand and closing his eyes, continuing to pet Grif's fur.

Simmons doesn't know how long they stay there, lounging in the sand or walking along the beach, but after a while, he convinces Grif to get up by promising to cook food for the two of them. 

They finish 'patrolling', which is essentially just a slightly longer walk back to the cabins and merciless teasing.

The teasing turns to rough-housing, pushing and shoving that ends with Simmons falling into a patch of mud. A wet splat can be heard from his fall, and it sends Grif into a fit of laughter. Simmons finds that he doesn't mind all that much when it gets Grif to laugh like that. Of course, he doesn’t let his companion know that, using a string of profanities and insults to hide just how okay he is with the state of himself.

"Laugh it up, fatass, but I'm gonna steal your clothes when we get back." Neither of them acknowledges how easy it would be to stop at Simmons' treehouse and pick up clothes on the way to the cabin.

When they get back, Simmons snags one of Grif's t-shirts (which fits him like a nightgown) and a pair of his smallest shrunken boxers and takes a quick shower. No one knows where Sarge and Lopez learned to install basic indoor plumbing, but you know what they say about a gift horse.

Grif, of course, only has 3-in-1, shampoo/conditioner/body wash. Because "why would I need more than one bottle to get the job done? That's wasteful. Think of the planet, Simmons. You wanna be responsible for some dolphin choking on a bottle because you had to be selfish and wasteful and use separate ones for showering, then be my guest."

It's safe to say Simmons doesn't challenge Grif on that anymore. 

When he gets out of the shower, Grif has already caught a rabbit for Simmons to cook. Grif never hunts for anyone, but Simmons tries not to let himself dwell on that thought. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

Simmons takes the dead rabbit and starts on dinner, oblivious to the love-sick brown eyes following his every move.

When he doesn't hear Grif leave the room, he glances behind him only to see Grif standing there with a dazed look on his face. He raises an eyebrow and hums in amusement, waving his knife around as he gestures.

"I'm not letting you eat raw rabbit inside again. Go shower while I cook it. You can stand to wait a little bit. You won't starve."

"Fuck you," Grif says, but there's no bite to it. He obediently leaves the room, and Simmons absolutely does not preen at the fact that Grif listens to what he says. Not even Sarge, the pack's 'alpha', can get him to do anything without a fight. He tells himself that it means something despite a smaller, quieter voice that tells him Grif would never feel that way.

He shuts that voice up with cooking, and soon, the smell of roasted rabbit and vegetables fills the small cabin, making even Simmons' mouth water. He's so focused on his task that he doesn't even hear Grif come out of the shower until a wet chin settles on his shoulder. He most certainly does not yelp in surprise. 

Grif is unbothered. "Mmm. Smells good," he murmurs. His hair is still wet from the shower, damp like he wrung it out. 

Simmons blushes heavily at the compliment. He's still not used to praise, and it does unseemly things to his body, especially when coming from Grif. Grif, whose wide chest is almost touching his back. Simmons can feel the heat of his body.

He needs distance now, or his brain is going to explode.

He knocks his hips back into Grif’s, effectively bumping the Hawaiian off of him. Grif steps back with a slight hitch of his breath.

"Go set the table, fatass. It's almost done."

It takes a moment, but Grif sets the table, grumbling under his breath the entire time.

Simmons sneaks a look at the Hawaiian as he does. He's just dressed in a pair of sweatpants, no shirt, and after this morning, Simmons wonders if he's wearing underwear.

"Are you wearing underwear?"

Simmons doesn't even realize how inappropriate the question is until he watches Grif drop a plate in surprise, nearly breaking it. Thankfully, in a fit of flailing, he manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

"What?" Grif's voice cracks.

"N-nothing!" Simmons turns back to the food, pretending that the finished meal needs some final touches. 

Slipping on some oven mitts, Simmons carries the still-warm food to the table, where Grif eagerly awaits.

They sit across from each other at a tiny table that only the two of them ever use. It's pressed up against the wall opposite the bed with a hand-stitched tablecloth that Donut made for them. It's even got their initials in one corner. 

With Grif bare-chested across from him, Simmons gets a great view of all the man's tattoos, geometric shapes and tribal patterns that must have taken hours. He'd be surprised, but Grif can lie in one spot and position for an entire day. Nevertheless, he admires the ink, wanting an excuse to touch the art. 

They eat in comfortable silence, mostly because Grif is too busy stuffing his face to actually talk to him. Simmons takes that as a compliment to his cooking, conveniently ignoring how Grif can and will eat anything and everything that is physically edible, including raw meat. Fucking werewolves. 

When they’re finished eating, Simmons takes care of the dishes and Grif opens up Simmons' laptop for their daily movie.

That laptop is his pride and joy. It's the one thing he managed to take with him from his life before the island, not that there was much worth bringing anyway. He managed to download thousands of movies and shows onto it, and every time the ex-hunters go on a supply run, he asks them to bring back another DVD or box set so he can add it to his collection.

Normally, Simmons would make a fire in the stone fireplace a few feet from the bed, but it's the warm season on the island so he doesn't bother. 

Grif settles into his bed, which is way softer and fluffier than Simmons' nest in his treehouse, and he makes space for Simmons to settle in next to him. Simmons tells himself that they're sitting as close as they are because they both need to see the small screen in order to watch the movie. 

The laptop rests atop Grif's wide thighs, so Simmons curls up around his side, leaning his head on Grif's shoulder like he did earlier in the day. 

It feels much more intimate this time around, especially when Grif lifts up his arm and wraps it around Simmons' slim frame. 

Simmons is pretty sure that his face matches his hair, but he stays quiet. He doesn't want to ruin the moment. 

Grif's hand settles on his waist, fingers nudging up the borrowed shirt and pressing against the smooth pale skin of his back. It doesn't wander, just rests there. 

As the movie starts up -- Simmons didn't bother to pay attention to the movie Grif chose -- his left arm rests against the Hawaiian's smooth chest. Grif, to his credit, doesn't even flinch at the chill of his metal fingers, even as they slowly trace the tattoos Simmons was eyeing at dinner.

Grif's gaze is laser-focused on the movie, not even sparing a glance in Simmons' direction, and it lets him continue his ministrations. If he minded, he would say something. So Simmons keeps tracing the patterns with his fingertips, around his pectorals and nipples, trying to be as gentle as possible. Grif's fingers, ever so slightly start to move along the skin of his back right above the waistline of his borrowed boxers. 

Eventually, his arm gets tired, and he settles his hand over Grif's right pec. Simmons isn't even paying attention to the movie anymore. He's tired. He lets his eyes fall shut. He'll just listen to the movie. Grif is so warm and the bed is so soft. He just wants to relax. 

He can smell Grif. Normally, that's not a pleasant smell, but he's recently showered. So he smells like soap and their food from earlier, and it comforts Simmons like nothing has before.

He's half-asleep when he hears the movie end and Grif closes the laptop with a soft click. The Hawaiian shifts and Simmons hears the laptop being placed somewhere else, likely the nightstand closest to Grif. 

When Grif settles into bed with him, pulling the largest fur up and over their connected bodies, Simmons realizes that he's spending the night. He's stayed with Grif before, but that was when the treehouse was being built. And he stayed on a small cot that Sarge provided him. Since he's had his own place, he hasn't really had a reason to spend the night, especially not in the same bed.

Grif's warm breath ghosts over his forehead and Simmons can't help but think about how close Grif's mouth is to him. He could tilt his head back and press forward and kiss him so easily. Simmons' heart picks up, and poor Grif must think it's a nightmare or something because he gently strokes Simmons' back with the wide hand of the arm that's still wrapped around him. Simmons does his best to settle, but it's hard when you're sharing a bed with the guy of your dreams, especially when the guy of your dreams is half-naked and pressed up against you. It doesn’t help that Grif can hear his heartbeat and smell any pheromones that Simmons puts out.

Eventually, he calms down enough to fall asleep, warm and comfortable in Grif's arms and Grif's bed.

~~~

"Dude," Tucker says, raising his hands placatingly. "All I'm saying is that you two have it bad for each other and if you asked he'd totally hop on your dick."

Grif sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why are they even friends? "I have no idea what you're talking about. Simmons isn't into me like that. I don't even know where you'd get that idea!"

"Have you heard his heartbeat when he's around you? It sounds like a hummingbird!"

"He has anxiety, Tucker!"

The siren rolls his eyes with a groan. "You're so fucking dense, dude." He flips his dreadlocks dramatically, flicking Grif with water.

Grif lies back against the weathered wood of the dock, looking up at the clouds. 

The air is silent, heavy.

"What if he says no, Tucker?"

Tucker startles at the vulnerability in Grif's voice but says nothing.

"If he says no," Grif continues, "we can't go back to how things were." He throws an arm over his eyes, blacking out his vision. "Things are so good right now. We work so well. If I push for a relationship it could screw up everything." He swallows thickly, and he definitely doesn't have tears in his eyes. “I don’t wanna lose what we have.”

"Dude," Tucker finally says, "how do you think I felt when I was thinking about asking out Wash? I was terrified for the exact same reasons, but here's a secret. If you guys are actually friends, Simmons won't let some awkward homoerotic feelings get in between you."

Tucker sympathetically pats one of his feet that's hanging off the end of the dock.

"When did you get so good at advice?"

"About the time Junior came around."

~~~

"So when are you gonna ask Grif out?"

Simmons lets out an undignified squawk as he startles, losing his left arm in the process. He was cleaning it, and his sudden jump sent it into the dirt with a thump.

"Jesus, Donut. Warn a guy next time." The question registers. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Simmons knows that his face is turning a deep shade of crimson, and he hopes Donut doesn't notice.

He leans over to pick up his fallen arm as Donut sighs, exasperated. "I'm talking about the heavy U-S-T going on between you guys."

"U-S-T?"

"Unresolved Sexual Tension!"

Simmons fumbles the arm, once again sending it into the dirt. He sighs.

"Donut, I don't know what you're talking about."

Donut makes a noise of aggravation, and Simmons swears he can see the vein in his forehead pop out. 

"You're telling me you haven't totally been picturing him naked, hot and sweaty and on top of y-"

"Donut!" Simmons flushes redder than his hair and flails wildly, cutting off Donut's inappropriate comments. "He doesn't like me like that. We're just friends." Simmons can't help the way he deflates toward the end of the sentence. He wants more than that, so much more, but Grif doesn't. He can't force it.

"Are you kidding me?" Donut is undeterred. "He scents you all the time. He lets you stay in his den. He hunts for you to show you he can provide. He-"

"Wait," Simmons says, eyes wide. "Is that not… normal?" His voice goes strangely high-pitched towards the end.

Donut looks like he’s about to have a stress-induced heart attack. “No!” Donut runs a hand through his long blond hair. “That is courting behavior. Grif is courting you! He has been since you got here!”

Simmons has never heard Donut so worked up. He almost laughs until he realizes that Donut is frustrated with him and Grif and their supposed ‘UST’.

“What if he rejects me?”

Donut’s expression softens at Simmons’s insecurity, and he smiles reassuringly at the redhead. “I don’t think Grif is capable of telling you ‘no’. You could tell him to go on a hunger strike, and he’d do it.”

Simmons snorts. “I think that’s pushing it.”


	2. Fuck Felix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, embarrassing! I accidentally uploaded only part of this chapter originally, so it would have made zero sense to anyone reading. It's fixed now, though. Oops.
> 
> Just an FYI, this is where the graphic violence tag comes into play. It's a super short scene, but tread carefully if you're sensitive to violence.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Super vague reference to a manipulative/abusive relationship in Simmons' past.

Simmons is in his hidden treehouse when he hears it: the howl. He can’t tell who it’s from, but there are only so many werewolves on the island that Simmons doesn’t exactly feel comfortable with the likelihood that it’s someone he cares about.

Panic-stricken, Simmons seals up the treehouse and hunkers down in the corner before he realizes that he’s done it. He’s never felt like a coward until now.

But Grif could be in trouble. The thought is enough for him to undo the window on his treehouse and sneak outside onto the nearest branch. He’s always felt at home in the trees, but it’s hard to find an excuse to be among them when everything you care about is on the ground.

It’s late evening, and the sun has already begun to set when he finds his friends. Sarge, Lopez, Grif, Church, Caboose, and some of the ex-hunters are trapped in cages when he finds them in the center of the island. He stays in the trees to maintain his vantage point. That’s what he tells himself, but he tries not to acknowledge the pervasive fear that presses against his conscience, threatening to send him into a panic attack at any given moment. 

Simmons, unfortunately, recognizes the kind of cages that his family has been trapped in. They’re made of a type of iron that is especially dangerous to magical creatures. Touching the bars results in burns, and increased exposure only increases the severity of the burns. He’s seen creatures die by throwing themselves into the bars too many times, and bumpy transportation has resulted in permanent mutilation of some creatures.

He wishes he didn’t recognize the people standing guard in front of the cages, but the familiar orange mohawk still occasionally haunts his dreams. Felix is a nasty piece of work with a miles-long track record and a foul mouth. His partner Locus was always more reserved, doing things because he had to not because he wanted to, unlike Felix. He’s leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. He doesn’t look happy, though, Simmons reasons, he never has.

The tiny orange-haired man is the real sadist, no empathy or remorse, and Simmons’ stomach churns when he realizes he’ll have to confront the man that mutilated him, that took his arm, his leg, his eye, just to make a quick buck selling them. Granted, it was enough money to tide someone over for a few lifetimes. Simmons wonders just how much of this is about the money and how much is just about the joy of seeing others suffer.

Captivity with Felix is worse than hell, and Simmons doesn’t want to think about the same thing happening to any of his friends.

“Psst, Simmons!” The whisper is nothing more than a gentle breeze floating by his ear, but he knows well enough that it likely belongs to Donut, who is currently camouflaged as a tree nearby.

Simmons, pained at the thought of it, has to turn away from his friends and get out of earshot before he can finally have a conversation with Donut. The nymph lets his face poke out of a towering oak tree, and it’s more than weird to see Donut’s face in bark. It feels like a bad acid trip.

“Donut, I’m glad you’re okay.” The relief that there are at least a few of his friends that haven’t been captured is short lived thanks to what Donut says next.

“Simmons, they’re looking for you. They called you by name. I thought Grif was going to go feral, he’s been giving them a lot of problems, and that orange-haired guy isn’t pulling any punches.”

The anger that settles into Simmons’ bones is fiery and white-hot, and it almost entirely drowns out his anxiety. No one lays a hand on Dexter Grif.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Simmons promises, his voice a tone that not even he has heard before.

“Woah, Simmons your eyes are glowing!”

Simmons curses and forces the golden glow of his eyes to stop, fading back to their usual green color.

“Simmons,” Donut says, tone sobering, “why do they want you so badly?”

Simmons swallows. He can trust Donut. He knows this, but the past is a heavy burden that he hasn’t fully shed. “They’re supernatural traffickers,” Simmons hedges, “and I’m worth a lot of money to them.”

Donut is smart. Simmons knows that he’ll pick up on the fact that that’s not the full story, but he’s as compassionate as he is intelligent, not pressing any further. He just nods and takes in the information. 

“Well, we’re gonna need reinforcements if we wanna take them on. I don’t know what they are, but they’re scary strong.”

Simmons nods. “Orange mohawk is a half-demon, and scar-face is a golem under his control.”

Donut’s face pales, which is super strange to see on a tree. “Okay, that’s not terrifying at all.”

~~  
Finding Tucker is easy because he basically never leaves the shallows, and apparently, he’s got no idea what’s going on because he’s just lounging in the water without a care in the world.

“Hey, guys,” he greets, seeing Simmons and Donut approach. “What’s up?”

“Tucker-” Simmons starts, but he’s cut off by Donut.

“Traffickers have Wash and the others!”

Tucker’s mood immediately darkens, and he straightens faster than Simmons has ever seen anyone move. Before either of them can say anything else, Tucker is out of the water with a glowing trident and a murderous look on his face.

~~  
“Doc, we’re going to war,” Tucker exclaims, slamming open the door of Doc’s enchanted hut. Only people who don’t mean harm are able to see it, which explains why Felix and Locus didn’t find him. While human mages don’t sell for much, the things they can make do.

“War? I’m a pacifist!”

Donut drags him out of his house. “Not today you aren’t.”

~~  
They’re a ragtag group, and Simmons, not for the first time, doubts whether they’ll be able to take down Felix and Locus. They may only be two guys, but they’re some of the scariest and experienced traffickers that Simmons has ever come across, and when you’re something as rare as Simmons, you come across a lot.

But the absolute fury on Tucker’s face coupled with Donut’s fierce determination settles something in his gut, fills him with something warmer and lighter. Simmons tries not to feel hope often. Too many days were spent in a cage just like the one his friends are in, and hope was a dangerous thing to have back then. It was naive. And it just made it easier to break you.

“We need a plan,” Doc finally says, breaking the tense silence. “We can’t just go marching in there guns blazing!”

“Fuck a plan,” Tucker bites out, “I’m gonna gut the bastard that thought it was a good idea to take Wash.”

“Doc’s right,” Simmons says, grabbing a fuming Tucker’s arm. “Seriously, Tucker. Listen to me.” He gestures to his leg and arm. “Felix is the guy that did this to me. He’s more dangerous than you think. If we don’t do this right, he will kill us.”

That, at least, gets Tucker to pause, nostrils flaring and mouth set in a thin line.

“Fine.” He says. “What do we do?”

~~

“Dickie!” Felix taunts, calling out into the forest like he knows Simmons can hear him. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” His eyes roam over the cages and the figures inside them. One of the wolves has been particularly feisty. The fat one hasn’t stopped snarling since he mentioned Richard by name. He files that information away for later use.

“Shut the fuck up, Felix.” Simmons suddenly appears in front of him, and Felix knows the little drama queen was waiting for the right moment to greet him.

Felix’s Cheshire cat grin makes Simmons shiver as he stands before the half-demon.

“Now, Dickie, don’t be rude.” Felix chides. He looks the redhead up and down and hums. “Looks like someone outfitted you with some new toys.”

Simmons tries not to show how ruffled he’s feeling, and he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching his interaction with Felix. And the only sound on the wind is Grif’s persistent growling.

He ignores Felix’s comment. “What do you want?”

Felix’s too-playful smile finally falls from his face, and his expression is thunderous. “You’ve never been stupid, Dickie. Don’t start pretending now.” He pauses, and his gleeful expression returns. “Though you must not be as smart as I’ve given you credit for because you’ve led us to the motherload of all paydays.” He gestures with wide arms to the several captured ex-hunters and supernatural creatures. “We’ll be rolling after this.”

Simmons startles at the information. Led them here? Does that mean? He touches his face, feeling the spot where his left eye used to be.

“You just now put it together?” Felix chuckles. “The surgery for that eye of yours served more than one purpose, pretty bird.” He holds up an all-too-familiar dagger. “I can’t wait to take the other.” He licks up the blade of the weapon in one long stripe. “The first one just left me wanting more.”

Simmons can’t suppress the disgusted shudder that runs through his body at the sight. Felix always did love to toy with his food.

“But, I’m feeling generous,” Felix finally says with a sigh. “And I’m willing to make a trade.”

Simmons knows that Felix can’t be trusted. He knows that. He knows that anything and everything that comes out of his mouth is designed to trick people so he can get what he wants. But Simmons is desperate. He’s tired of fighting. He wants to go home, not to his treehouse but to the den. Grif’s den. Their den. And he wants to watch Star Trek reruns in bed while wearing Grif’s t-shirt while Grif holds him like he’s something precious - not damaged goods.

So he knows it’s a bad idea, but he asks anyway. 

“What do you want?”

Felix’s strut is cat-like and with purpose as he stalks closer to Simmons. He likes to think that he looks pretty cool standing his ground in front of the man who broke his body.

“I’ve heard through the grapevine that some pretty little feathers are especially powerful ingredients in certain mixtures. Some of my sources say even...life-giving.”

Simmons snorts. “We both know that’s a myth.”

Felix shrugs. “Yeah, but the buyers don’t.”

“You’re disgusting,” Simmons says, voice bitter.

Felix is unperturbed by the comment, looking Simmons up and down with a heat in his gaze that Simmons recognizes all too well. “You didn’t used to think so,” he purrs. Shame fills Simmons’s gut. He trusted the man in front of him at one point, loved him even. What a fucking mistake that was.

“It’s simple,” Felix finally says casually. “You give me your wings, and you and your friends to get to live happily ever after having group orgies or,” he gestures lazily with his knife, “whatever you guys get up to on an island of all places.”

“What reason do I have to believe you?” Simmons crosses his arms with a scoff. “You really think I don’t know you’ll just take what you want when you want it?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Then, why haven’t I tried to kill you yet, Dickie? I’m trying for the path of least resistance here.” He points at the cages with his dagger. “I didn’t even hurt your friends here, even though fatty over there has been a pain in the ass.” He snorts. “If he’s a pain in my ass, I can’t imagine how much of pain he is in yours. Are werewolves really as hung as I hear or is it more proportional?”

Simmons thinks that he probably lost a few years off of his lifespan with that comment.

Felix takes his silence in stride. “Right you don’t kiss and tell.” He straightens up and his expression turns serious. “Well, what do you say? Wings in exchange for your friends? You know you won’t get a better deal.”

There’s a flash of light where Simmons stands, and when it fades, a pair of wings are left behind. Tattered red and gold feathers extend from his back. There are spots where the feathers are matted and dirty, and there are other feathers that are still clipped. Pulling them out to let them regrow was too painful, and he could never manage to fix them. Some small part of him might have hoped that the uglier they were, the less anyone would want to take them.

“Someone’s been slacking with the grooming,” Felix teases, a predatory glint in his eyes. 

The cages were eerily quiet, all of the inhabitants staring at Simmons. He tried not to let the tears blur his vision too much. He knew they’d be angry that he kept this from them. Housing a phoenix was certain to cause problems. They’re worth more than anything else on the black market, especially their blood and feathers. This wouldn’t be too much of a problem considering how resilient they are. Very little can hurt them, but once traffickers discovered that weapons made of dragon bone worked on them, they were hunted almost to extinction. It’s likely that Simmons is one of the last of his kind.

Felix’s eyes become steely, and he stalks forward. “Kneel for me, pretty bird.”

Simmons swallows down the bile in his throat and slowly lowers to his knees, wings outstretched on either side of him. The limbs ache with lack of use, and the nausea makes his head spin.

Felix laughs at him. “Don’t shake too much, Dickie. It’ll make this messier.”

When the half-demon gets close enough. Simmons explodes into flames, sending Felix stumbling back with sizzling hair and missing eyebrows. His expression is murderous.

“Oh man, that is a burn. Dude, you just got burned. Burned, dude. Burned.”

“Jesus Christ, shut up, Donut,” Tucker snaps, pulling his trident out of an incapacitated Locus. It looks like they managed to hit wherever Felix’s name was written, rendering the golem immobile. He could be given free will like Caboose if someone were to write his own name on him, but that’s a task for another day. 

Felix made an inhuman sound of rage, and the air around the cages shimmered as the glamour fell, revealing a very sweaty Doc. The mage breathed heavily but gave a thumbs-up as the cages were suddenly empty, the illusion gone.

The freed creatures and former hunters encircle Felix from the treeline, all with varying looks of fury on their faces.

Felix takes no time planning an attack. He lunges at Simmons, knife in hand, swiping at him and apparently not caring that he’s still on fire.

Apparently, Grif takes no time planning an attack either, because he leaps at Felix with his teeth bared, latching onto his arm, drawing blood. He shakes his head, digging in deeper and causing tears in his arm, snarling the entire time. 

Felix reacts quickly, though. He digs the knife into Grif’s stomach and drags the blade through his skin before tossing the wolf aside. Simmons feels the resulting yelp in his bones.

Simmons finally rises to his feet and stalks forward, still covered in flames. His left arm, the golden one, seizes Felix by the neck. It’s long enough, and Felix is short enough that he can’t reach Simmons’s organic body with his dragon-bone knife, and the golden limb is strong enough to not be affected. But Felix tries his best, slicing and swiping at the metal arm like he’s got nothing to lose. Simmons has never been more thankful to have long, lanky limbs.

And he starts to squeeze. When he was a captive with Felix and Locus, he was kept thin, malnourished so that he wouldn’t be able to fight back, but he’s stronger now, healthier, more powerful.

The flames grow hotter, and he can see the fear in Felix’s eyes. The smell of burning hair and flesh fills the hair like charred meat. Simmons can taste it on his tongue. The skin on Felix’s neck starts to bubble, melting like candle wax, and the blood starts to run down his arm, coloring it red.

Watching the skin melt off of Felix, hearing him gurgle as the life leaves his eyes, fills Simmons with a primal sort of satisfaction. He can feel the power surging through his veins, through the blood that Felix coveted so much. He’s never felt this powerful before, this strong, this hungry.

Felix stilled longer before, but Simmons kept burning him, burning his body until even the bones fell apart, singed, charred. 

He’s not sure just how long he sits there, blazing bright enough that it almost looks like daylight, but somehow, he manages to reign his flames in. He thinks it’s the smell of blood that draws him out of it.

The rest of his friends dragged a heavily bleeding Grif some yards away. Simmons pales when he realizes it’s because they were protecting Grif from him. There’s a circle of charred earth at least a dozen feet around him, nothing surviving the fire.

Doc is kneeling over Grif’s prone wolf body, both of them covered in blood, and the mage’s hands are glowing a bright purple.

Why are they blurry?

Simmons staggers forward, belatedly realizing that he’s burned all of his own clothes off, but he doesn’t have time to think about it when Grif’s not moving. Some sick part of his mind notes how in character that is for him, and he almost smiles.

He manages a few feet before a few faces turn towards him, and there are some shouts, but they sound muffled. 

Who’s talking to me?

He falls to his knees, his body not responding to his commands, and the world gets blurrier, like he’s opened his eyes underwater. There’s something wet on his face, around his mouth.

He wipes it with his hand, feeling the slick liquid transfer to his palm.

The bright red color is the last thing he sees before the rest of the world falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be much softer I promise


	3. Oreos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons explains his history with Felix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:
> 
> -mentions of abuse/abusive relationships  
> -mentions of underage sex work  
> -mentions of homelessness
> 
> If these issues are triggering to you please proceed with caution.

The first thing Simmons notices is the feeling of soft fur against his bare skin. The second thing he notices is the familiar smell, sugary sweet, like cookies baking in an oven.

Then, he noticed the warm weight against his back, nestled against his feathers and whatever bare skin the body behind him could reach.

He knew before he opened his eye that it was Grif behind him, feeling his warm breath on the back of his neck and taking note of the trunk of an arm wrapped around him.

He hums sleepily. 

“Morning,” he finally says with a yawn, stretching tiredly.

Grif sits up with a start, staring at him wide-eyed and eerily silent.

“Grif?”

The werewolf’s eyes are moving up and down his body like they’re scanning for injuries before the rest of his body catches up.

“Simmons,” he finally says, and he breathes it out with a heaviness that has Simmons worrying.

“Grif, are you okay?”

Grif laughs like he’s in shock, still hovering over him in the bed.

“Am I okay?” He exhales through his nose. “Simmons, you’ve been out for two weeks!” 

Simmons feels pale at the information, and he quickly sits up, forcing Grif to finally back up. They end up sitting on the bed facing each other.

He’s partially surprised at how natural it feels to move with his wings out again, especially after he went so long with them hidden. 

“Two weeks?”

Grif nods, clearly not happy about the length of time either. “Doc said it was some kind of magical backlash? Something about using too much magic?”

Simmons nodded. “He’s right. I went overboard. Creatures like us,” Simmons says, gesturing between them, “we’re made of magic, and it gives us the ability to do things like shift or, in my case, summon fire. With the glamour I used to hide my wings on top of the fire I summoned, I pushed my body way past the breaking point.”

“So, Doc wasn’t just being dramatic when he said you could’ve killed yourself doing that?”

Simmons shakes his head. Grif purses his lips into a thin, angry line, and he exhales heavily through his nose. 

“I swear, Simmons, you’re lucky I l-”

He’s cut off by the loud and persistent rumble of Simmons’ stomach. 

“Sorry,” the redhead says, putting his hands on his abdomen and flushing a deep crimson.

Grif just shakes his head, before wordlessly getting up and grabbing one of his most prized snacks and handing the package to Simmons.

“You’re giving me your Oreos?” 

“Don’t eat the whole thing,” he warns, but his voice is fond. “But I still need you to answer some questions. We’ve all been left in the dark after you passed out.”

Simmons nods, starting to slowly chew on a cookie before continuing.

“Where should I start?”

Grif gives him a look. “Who the fuck was that Felix guy?”

Simmons shudders at the name before remembering that the little prick has no means of ever coming after him again. He relaxes a little at that, and then, he figures he might as well start at the beginning.

“My parents were part of a breeding program for phoenixes. They were an arranged couple, and as you can probably guess, they didn’t exactly fall in love. But, they had kids, a lot of them. That was the point of the program.”

He eats another cookie.

“I ran away from home when I was fourteen.”

Grif hums as if he understands, but he says nothing.

“I didn’t feel loved, ya know? And my siblings hated me for whatever reason, so I just packed a bag and left. I didn’t really have a destination in mind, just walked for a while, slept where I could, and I rationed the little food I managed to pack.” 

He can feel the tears start to build up, but he somehow manages to keep them from spilling out.

“I started doing sex work when I was fifteen. It wasn’t the worst. Yeah, the guys who would pick me up were creeps for liking boys that young, but the other workers were really nice, and they helped take care of me. And, that’s when I met Felix.”

He sniffs a little and stuffs another cookie into his mouth to keep from crying.

“He was nice at first, ya know? He picked me up, and he didn’t even make me do anything, he just paid me to hang out with him. I thought he felt bad for me and wanted to make a difference. And after being on my own for so long it felt nice to have someone who wanted to pamper me, make sure I had everything I needed, but I realize now he was trying to make me dependent on him.”

A tear slips past his cheek, and he hastily wipes it away, as if that’ll erase the fact that it existed.

“Eventually, I moved in with him, and we were in a ‘relationship’. He was twenty then, and I thought it was cool that this older guy respected me and wanted to take care of me. It made me feel special. Eventually, he asked for small favors. He knew what I was. I didn’t know how to make a glamour then, and I didn’t realize how stupid it was to not hide my wings. So, he asked me for a little vial of blood. He said that it would help us make money so we could still live comfortably. He said it was the least that I could do since he handled everything for me.”

He can’t look Grif in the eyes, keeping his stare to the Oreos or to the bed, but he sees Grif’s hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white.

“By the time I realized that it wasn’t healthy, things were really bad, and I didn’t have the means to leave. I mean, he handled all the money, and I hadn’t seen or heard from my family in two years, and I really didn’t want to be homeless again, so I didn’t know what else to do.”

Simmons shoves another cookie into his mouth, barely tasting them anymore. He knows he’s ugly crying, but he can’t get himself to stop. It’s like whatever dam or wall holding everything back broke, and he couldn’t shove it all back down again.

“And eventually, Carolina and the others caught wind of phoenix blood on the market, but by the time they found me he already-”

He can’t finish the sentence, but he gestures to his missing arm and leg. And he’s sure that Grif understands.

“And then I came here,” he finally finishes with a wince. “You know the rest.”

He finally gathers enough courage to look at Grif’s face, and he’s shocked by the anger in his usually calm demeanor.

“If he wasn’t dead already, I’d hunt the sicko down and gut him myself. Slowly.” 

And then he pulls Simmons into a hug, completely ignoring the Oreos spilling out of the package and onto the bed. He buries his nose against the pale column of his neck and breathes deeply, and the tension slowly melts from his body. He still holds onto Simmons, though, nuzzling against his neck and shoulder like a puppy.

“Grif?” Simmons says after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Grif’s whole body seizes up and he freezes for a few agonizing seconds before he squeezes Simmons even closer and tighter than before. “That’s pretty gay, dude.”

Simmons snorts, face still wet with tears.

“Simmons?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that I’m in love with you, right?”

Simmons pulls away, far enough to look Grif in the eyes. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?”

“One-up me!”

Grif chortles, sticking his tongue out at Simmons.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Fuck you!” Simmons says, playfully pushing at Grif’s shoulder. He already knows what response is coming when he sees Grif’s smirk.

“I mean you can if you want.” His eyebrows do a little dance on his face, and Simmons can’t help the bubble of laughter that comes up in response.

“Are you saying you want to bottom?” Simmons wiggles his own eyebrows back, and Grif rolls his eyes.

“Shut up and kiss me, asshole.”

And Simmons does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the ending feels kind of rushed. I've never been very good at concluding stories, but I tried to make this realistically hopeful. Simmons has a lot of issues to work through, but they love and support each other (how gay amirite?). And (though not included in what has been written) please know that, in this universe, Simmons get lots of therapy and Grif is super supportive of it. Eventually, they'll both be okay. (I always write happy endings, when I manage to write endings).
> 
> If you have comments or criticism, I really encourage you to leave them! I want to get better as a writer and hopefully write more for this ship in the future.


End file.
